Thirst
by creatoriginsane
Summary: She wonders sometimes at night, if he would ever look at her as a fire he wanted to put out, but can't.
1. Chapter 1

Thirst

A/N: The mentally depraved and the sexually repressed.

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She wonders about the itch in her throat and the dryness in her mouth.

"You are here. Again."

He says, but does not move towards her, nor does he even turn to acknowledge her. The fire in front of him flickers and she feels cold.

"Why am I still here?"

When she asks, her voice does not quiver, but she can feel the immediate tightening of her throat when he looks.

"You remain here because you are needed."

His eyes are enough to pin her to the ground.

She cannot speak, cannot breathe, cannot even respond, and he is fast, faster than her, when his hand clutches at her throat and presses her against the wall.

"Or do you wish to disappear like all the rest?"

The maliciousness in his voice echoes in the room and her hands do not rise to claw at him. She is limp and light, weak in his grasp. The nails of his fingertips dig into her skin and she wonders if he has drawn any blood yet.

"Do you?"

He punctuates with a grin that makes her belly tighten and her thighs sweat and she wants to plaster his grin across her face, feel the edges of his bones against her skin.

"Because I do not."

He drops her and she falls to her knees, slumps against the wall and heaves as she watches him watch her. He puts his face in a grimace as she coughs and sighs and gasps. She is not used to the lack of air. She is afraid of drowning and he has given her something close enough, but he does not apologize.

"I am still here because you need me to be."

She repeats his words in her own and sounds disappointed. Her breathing finally even  
and it does not surprise him that she does not have a reddish flush on her cheeks.

"Yes."

He replies and she looks up at him, before shooting an arm to grab at his own and pull him down to her level. He falls on his knees and leans unwillingly towards her as she wrings his neck with both of her hands. Her speed surprises him, but the gentle, almost tender grip on his throat surprises him even more. His skin is hot. Her hands are cold. His breathing stops when he feels hot air come over his mouth.

"Do you even want me?"

She tells him and is very much tempted to have her lips come over his, but before she does, she is thrown over his shoulder and nearly crashes into the fireplace. She lies facedown on the stone ground, and groans as she attempts to raise herself up. He stands on his own, and waits for an apology he knows she will never give.

"You are here because you have asked that I make you invincible, immortal, and you are not yet one."

The look he sends her is one of disapproval and she cannot sense any bit of desire in him.

"I would even think that you will never be one."

When he leaves, the desire within her swells like hot fire in her belly.

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A/N: To each his own.

A warning though (if I do choose to continue this): rape, violence, and questionable debauchery that I haven't tried writing before.

This will be interesting.

P.S. I'm seriously considering going back to this fandom and ruining it for everyone. Oh dear.


	2. Chapter 2

Thirst

A/N: I am serious in pursuing this... Too serious, I think...

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She cannot tell the day from the night.

In the underground maze, only the fireplaces and torches provide light. A desolate landscape of carved stone and empty, echoing halls. She has grown used to the silence and the lonesomeness. Sometimes she goes to the prison cells, and immerses herself with the sounds of pained screaming and frustrated groaning, with the smell of dried blood and urine and sweat. In the desolation of the underground maze, the prison hall is the liveliest place, filled with life and death and the living and the dying.

Once, she found herself in the arena. The walls are painted with the rich, dark color of blood, and the floor is covered with the dust of old, broken bone. She was younger then, barely at the cusp of maturity and very much thirsty for blood.

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She is young, and she is raging with vehement anger towards the shinobi who have persecuted her father and her mother, and have taken her younger brother away. She clutches onto her father's sword, _Kunishige_ , and wishes for the whistling blade to materialize into her father, warm and calloused and caring. She embraces her mother's sword, _Yamenokayama_ , and wishes for it to speak like her mother, telling her words of comfort and praise.

She looks at him and sees not a hint of care and remorse, and refuses to cry.

"You are young." He tells her as they walk through the empty halls. "But you are angry."  
They stop in front of a large door. They enter the room, a large room, decorated with stone figures of snakes with torches for eyes. It is an arena, she thinks, and readies both Kunishige and Yamenokayama, placing the swords on her belt.

"It is an arena." She says. "Who am I going to fight?"

He appreciates her enthusiasm, if not her itching desire to lash out, and replies, "You are angry and we shall turn that anger into something more powerful."

He steps into the middle of the room and tilts his head upwards, opens his mouth wide and-

The next event makes her toes curl and her fingers shake.

The hilt of a sword emerges from the back of his throat, and followed by the rest of it.

She watches him closely and imagines his bones, his very insides, to be made of steel. She watches him remove the sword from his mouth with a peculiar grace, the way his fingers twitch as the blade exits his throat. She is not afraid, but is fascinated by it all.

"This is the Kusanagi." He shows the blade to her, still wet with his saliva, and it is nothing special.

But she has heard of the myths surrounding the weapon; its ability to extend for miles on end, without thinning its blade or dulling its sharpness, and if one was strong enough, it could use the sword to cut countries apart. If that was the real sword, then it only mean that he hadn't given it to her father. If that was the real sword…

The mere thought of him being able to tear countries apart makes her admiration turn into something more selfish.

"I promised it to your father when I have made you into a weapon. But unfortunate circumstances left both you and sword to me." He lowers the sword. "And I will make use of you both."

The blade of the Kusanagi extends to her neck before she could breathe. It is fast, she notices. She bites her lower lip and prevents a smile at the exhilarating feeling of being in the presence of a legend.  
"This is the Kusanagi." The blade retracts. "And you will be like it, a legend, an immortal."

She smiles in spite of herself, and sees him do the same.

Malice and ambition are quite the combination, after all.

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But the arena of the prison is different.

It is dark, save for the singular ray of light in the center of the pit. She calls it a pit because there are no entrances or exits, the prison arena is a large hole dug deep enough to prevent escape, wide enough for it to look like a coliseum, with its audience members looking at the spectacle below like gods looking down from the sky.

One day, he throws her into the pit.

"Lesson one," He calls out, "You will learn how to kill with your body."

She stands beneath the column of light and looks at him. His arms are crossed over his chest and he looks at her with scrutinizing eyes.

She feels naked without a weapon, and the way she holds her wrist is evidence enough. She is nervous, but she feels a certain excitement that tugs at the corners of her mouth like a laugh.

"Your first opponent." He says, and she hears a predatory howl from above.

Her first opponent is a rouge samurai, that she can tell from the tattoos marking half of his body, and he is armed with a makeshift dagger. She rolls out of his way and into the back wall. He thrusts the blade to her stomach, but she is faster than him, she trusts her hand into his throat.

A bloody gurgle escapes him before he falls to the ground. She takes his dagger and walks forward.

Her second opponent is a woman who has needle-like ends on her hair, she can see that much when the woman stands beneath the light. The woman attacks by whipping her hair around, throwing needles around the arena. She deflects the projectiles with the dagger, hearing the whistle of metal against metal. The woman pauses momentarily, and she takes the opportunity to throw the dagger towards the woman, hitting her in the stomach. She propels herself forward and removes the dagger from the woman's stomach, and thrusts it to her chest. The woman's blood spills out and onto her.

A third opponent makes himself known. A young man with clawed hands. She breaks his arm and shoves the dagger up to its hilt into his thigh.

And then a fourth, a middle-aged man that can sweat acid. She burns her hands when she breaks his arm and bends his head backwards to the point of breaking.

A fifth, a girl with the strength of an elephant and the agility of a monkey. She shoves the girl's face into the ground and strangles her.

The sixth, a bandaged man who can summon whirlwinds and tornadoes. She digs her teeth into his neck and thrusts a finger into one of his eyes.

Seventh, a blind man who can manipulate sound waves to paralyze the enemy. She screams the entire time she pulls his jaw from the rest of his face.

Eight.

The eighth doesn't come.

Instead she hears a solitary applause. She looks to the origin of the sound and sees him smile at her bloody state. She immediately feels a warm curling in her stomach and a strange desire to lick at her lips.

She does, and tastes blood.

"You are brutal." He says, "Brutal, but careless."

He's mocking her, but all she can hear and see is his praise.

She doesn't notice the third opponent coming to life and charging with the dagger aimed to her head until the last instant.

She is fast. She throws him off her shoulder and digs the dagger into his head.

"Brutal and animalistic." He says in a hushed tone, much like saying a malicious secret, and it makes the curl in her stomach tighten and her breath hitch.

"Come," He calls to her, and she half expects him to hold a hand out to her, but that is foolish, even if he did. She wouldn't reach him. The pit is too deep, and so she places the bodies on top of one another and climbs out, follows him like an obedient student.

Still, it would have made her face flush if he did.

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It has been twenty-four days, she has heard from one of his spies, since the first time she has drawn blood in the prison's pit. She was angry, a raging tide of vehement anger and selfish vengeance, and she is still angry now.

But her anger is no longer directed to the nameless, faceless shinobi who have done her wrong in the past, but at herself.

Sometimes, before she goes to bed, she imagines him to be with her.

She imagines his body in the candlelight, taut muscle and scarred ivory. She will count his scars and compare them with her own. He would have more scars than her, but they are old, a mocking reminder of his past, whereas hers are new, a taunting reminder of what she is.

She imagines his face, the sharp bones of his cheeks and the glimmering gold of his eyes, to be in her hands, holding so tenderly and so close to her own.

She imagines his lips parting and baring the fangs reminiscent of the nightmarish monsters she used to tell her brother about.

She doesn't think him to be a monster.

She sees his sharp teeth and wants her lips to be pierced by them.

She imagines her hands clasped around the thin of his neck, almost strangling, almost tender.

She imagines him to do the same.

She imagines him wanting her.

She imagines still.

But the illusion of him in her bed scatters almost immediately. There is an insistent knock on her door.

"Fuck immortality." She hisses, finding it difficult to bring herself to orgasm with just her hands and the foolish illusion of his naked body.

It angers her that she cannot turn her rage, her frustration, into something akin to pleasure. She's heard of stories from when she was younger, about women being able to fulfill their fantasies and satisfy themselves with mere images and imaginings. She now thinks that those stories, those told in hushed whispers between blushing girls in dim parlors, to be nothing more than old wives' tales.

So she approaches the door, her robe tied haphazardly about her waist, and opens it.

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A/N: I realize that this is my first time to be writing (dark) smut. If it will be smut…

Any idea which road I should take next?


	3. Chapter 3

Thirst

A/N: Just to get the ball rolling…. This story coincides with the universe of _Martyrdom is an Art_ (which Sasori fans might find appalling given what I've done with his character, but it's quite an interesting take on his whole idea of immortality maybe? Give it a look, why not?) which means that the girl is a… I'll stop there. Enjoy (or cringe in fear as I attempt to write the snake-charmer)

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Animalistic.

Savage.

Brutal.

Carnivorous.

He winces as he watches her fight. It's not that he's astonished by her or anything of the sort, but the way she pounces on her opponents and claws and scratches at them is just so…

 _Reckless._

Yes. That's the word he's looking for. He realizes it only once she's defeated her first opponent, a tattooed straggler he found lying half-dead in the outskirts of a small village three days ago. The man claims to be a samurai, but all he saw was a man begging for this life. His tattoos are clearly imitation, the ink is three shades lighter that what should be. The dragon drawn on his arm is mocking, almost parodic of the declining reign of the samurai.

He listens to the gurgle of the man's throat and couldn't help but smile at the irony.

"I need a second chance!" He could recall the man begging on his knees. He kept his end of the bargain, gave him a second chance at life with only one condition: he comes out of the arena alive.

Pity.

Her first fight in the arena is the man's second. He is a tactical fighter, but a desperate one, the way he aims for the obvious points is proof of this. But the way she has her eyes all over him is reminiscent of a predator in search for prey. She is looking for his weak points, looks for the one spot he is vulnerable, and strikes. Her nails dig deep into the skin of throat and tears, almost, his skin from his bone.

Gruesome, he thinks, and sees the way the blood trickles down her arm. She doesn't shiver, doesn't wince, doesn't cry. It's like she's killed before, and likely ready to kill again.

 _Next!_ , her body screams with labored breathing and hungry eyes.

He calls for a woman he met in the outskirts of Kirigakure, a seamstress with an infinite arsenal of projectile needles and a curtain of hair long enough to come until her knees. In the fight, she uses her hair to her advantage, letting her hair fall and whirl around her as she strikes with needles, making it look as if the needles came from her hair. Alas, the weight of her mane was too heavy for her to continue whipping about.

The sight of the woman's blood spilling, dark liquid almost a match to her dark hair, is a sign of the seamstress' end.

 _More!_ Her body demands, bloody and panting and very, very hungry.

Third, a man from Kusagakure who had a physical abnormality of having sharp, claw-like, nails. She turns his arm backwards until there is an unforgiving _crack_ and then forces the first man's dagger into his thigh, deep and painful.

Fourth, a man who has created a technique that coats his skin in acid, rendering taijutsu a pain to use. But she is oblivious to it, and she burns her skin when she attacks him, and winces.

He sees her weakness.

But she continues her attack, feeling the stinging burn on the skin of her palms when she destroys him. She is strong, but she is not immune to pain, to hurt, and she hates it.

The fifth is a girl from Kumogakure with a particularly interesting dōjutsu that enhances her strength and agility by tenfold. The dōjutsu, however, lasted only for a short time, and she has seen through it, taking the opportunity to strike the moment the dōjutsu is cancelled by fatigue. She strangles the girl and forces her to the ground.

The second to the last is a rogue shinobi hailing from Takigakure, with great mastery over wind-type techniques, but he is, however, still human and very much vulnerable to direct attacks to the body. The whirlwinds he creates throw her off and away from him, and he body is tired, very tired, but she glances upwards and sees him glowering at her, looking at her as if in judgment, testing her worth, and-

She so wants to prove herself to him.

She forces herself, her tired body, to come after the man with tornadoes in his palms, and get thrown again, and again, and again. But she continues, runs and ducks and spins, and jumps, moves closer and closer to the man and pounces on him, latches like a fly and digs her teeth in his throat.

He stares at the horrific sight, listens to the brutal noise, and licks his lips in dry anticipation of what else she has to show him.

But then again, he thinks, she has nothing more else to offer but her brutal body and her savage spirit.

He needs _more_. She needs to give him more.

So he listens to the broken scream that resounds in the empty room, the cracking echo of her voice as she forces her final opponent's jaw off of his face.

It is brutal. It is savage. Animalistic. Carnivorous.

But she is reckless, she has left one of them alive.

Eventually, however, she finishes him off like the rest of them.

For now, she is a victor.

For now, she has his full attention.

He doesn't wonder, however, how long she can keep him interested.

After all, he has yet to see if she has inherited Hagakure's dōjutsu, as her father says.

If she hadn't, well…

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It has been twenty-four days after she has drawn first blood, fifty-six since she was given to him, and forty-eight since she has realized that she had nowhere else to go. Her parents are dead, her younger brother is missing, and the anger she feels has not yet dissipated.

He reminds himself that she is just fifteen, barely at the cusp of maturity, and he knows better than to groom her for slaughtering on his behalf. Her potential to be great astounds, and to a certain extent terrifies, him. She has come of her own accord, of her own will. He has not yet manipulated her into his bidding, and he is unsure of whether or not he will be successful in doing so.

But he is, however, sure that she cannot leave him.

He knows that she is dependent upon him, as he is her mentor, the only adult who has taken her under their wing, the only other person who thought to care of her as their own.

He feels ill at the thought of it, of him being reduced to a shinobi who values bonds and relationships over power and survival, but it cannot be helped. A weapon such as her would surely go to waste if left in someone else's hands. He is merely taking care of a weapon, grooming it for battle and sharpening it for war. She is not a child to be cared for, she is a weapon waiting to be perfected. And he, as one-third of the Legendary Sanin, is the only person worthy of unveiling such a weapon.

 _Quite thrilling_ , he thinks, as he skims his eyes over the glimmering blade of Kunishige and wonders when her skin will be the same. The katana feels light in his hands, but cuts faster than the Kusanagi itself. He recalls how she wields the sword, so natural and so sure, as if the sword was just an extension of her body, as if the sword was part of her actual body. She is naked without a sword, that he is sure of. Her dependence on her weapons will surely be her downfall.

Of course, as her mentor, he would not allow that to happen.

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He goes to her quarters and throws her Kunishige the moment she opens the door without so much as a greeting.

"Kunishige." He tells her, "This was your father's sword."

She clutches the sword to her chest, the light blue robe loose about her shoulders and her waist. Her skin is almost comparable to the paleness of the color, as is his.

"I-" She begins, "Yes."

"It doesn't seem to be used very often." He comments.

He doesn't step inside her quarters, nor does she move to invite him inside. He can sense her apprehension, and moves one step back. She can feel his disapproval and quickly tightens the robe around her body. She feels warm, hot, and she is sure a flush is blooming in her chest and across her neck.

"He was a swordsmith, not a samurai." She replied, looking down at her bare feet. She unsheathes Kunishige and the blade whistles in the otherwise uncomfortable silence. The blade is as pristine as the day it was born. The sword is years older than her, but it appears to not have aged at all. "Kunishige whistles to remind my father of his decision. It cries to mark the coming of a battle. It screams for a chance at victory. It sings a chorus of battle, a symphony of the samurai." She is nostalgic in her recollection of Kunishige's songs, the way her father wielded the blade like a composer held the orchestra. He was in control. He was in control of everything.

Control, she thinks, is something she lacks. Instinct tells her to fight. Pride tells her to win.

Control, he knows, is something she wishes she had. Instinct tells her to survive. Pride tells her to fight.

"Do you wish to become like your father?" He asked her.

"My father is dead." She tells him, the taste of her own words is bitter in her mouth, "Immortal and invincible, that is what my father wished I would become."

Her father wished for her to be stronger, so that she may protect them, her father is aging and her mother is, too. Her brother is still young, and she is the only one capable of protecting her family should the time come. But the war has already passed, and her family is gone. She is alone in the world, and her quest for strength should have already ended. She has no one left to protect, no one left to fight for. Except herself.

"And so he brought you here."

 _To me?_ His body asks.

 _To you._ Her eyes answer.

"So it seems." She hums, not looking directly at his silhouette. "Do you wish something of me?"

He turns away, "No."

Her eyes look downcast. She wants him to stay, her body is thirsty for his touch. But she needs him to leave, she has embarrassed herself too much by appearing to him in such lewd attire and she could swear that his senses are heightened and that he could smell her desire-

Wait.

He could smell her desire?

 _Well. Fuck._ She curses mentally.

"Is it morning?" She blurts out, internally asking him to stay a moment with her, but cursing herself at her question, "I would like to spar with you-"

"It is past midnight." He answered.

Kunishige rattles in her hand. She swallows a difficult breath, and continues, "Pardon, I wasn't aware of the time…" The rest of her response drowns in silence.

"Very well." He says. "I am in need of a little excursion before I go to bed." He smirks and her teeth chatter as she responds with her own smile. Her body responds by quickly trailing after him as he stalks the corridors. Bare-footed and with only a thin robe to cover herself, it feels almost scandalous, almost taboo for her, but these thoughts are willed away by one wholly selfish idea.

She will have him all to herself.

And that is all that matters. That is all she wants.

Him and her.

Alone.

In the dark.

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"You were unwise in inviting me to spar."

The tip of the Kusanagi is at her neck and she resists the urge to lean into it. She is sitting on the floor, helpless and at his mercy, the singing blade of Kunishige no longer in her grasp. Her body is littered with light scars and sores that will surely form into tight scars and bright bruises come the morning. She hasn't adjusted the sleeve falling from her shoulder, hiding a breast in its shadow. She breathes slowly, gasping for air as he stares her down, prevents her from moving.

"Forgive me." She replies, eyes not tearing away from his. She will have this moment of his attention being focused on nothing else but her.

"Do not beg." He hisses, leans down and slides Kusanagi across her neck, the cold blade licking her bare skin. "Never beg."

She swallows and licks at her lips in anticipation of his next move. She is still under his gaze, and he is unrelenting in his pursuit. She wants him to touch her, wants to feel the roughness of his palm against hers, wants to know the feeling of his scars against her own.

"For if you do," He lifts the blade from her neck and grazes it across her cheek, "You might as well consider yourself dead."

He whips away from her, and she gasps (moans? pleads?) in relief.

"Learn this," He says, looking at her from over his shoulder, "And the rest will follow."

He walks to leave, passing by her with a second glance, but he stops abruptly and looks down at her. She is clutching the hem of his robe, gritting her teeth and refusing to look him in the eye. Out of embarrassment perhaps?

"Continue." She coughs. "I want to continue."

Her hand clutching his robe shakes, and he crouches down to her level.

"Rest." He insists. "For even I am not immune to fatigue."

He smiles and she thinks that she must be hallucinating for him to offer her a (warm?) smile.

"Tomorrow?" She asks almost too eagerly. He would question her eagerness soon, she thinks.

"Yes. Tomorrow." He stands upright. "Earlier perhaps, else one might question my motives as to having you alone at night."

She flushes in embarrassment and realization of his statement, and hopes that he does not see it.

"Of course!" She exclaims a little too loudly, but reduces her voices into a whisper when she asks, "Shall I come to you?"

"No." He offers, "I would rather come to you instead."

And she wants to imagine the best possible meaning behind his words and tries not to pull him to her right then and there.

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In the end, they go their separate paths; he to his quarters and she to her own.

He sees himself mirrored in her eyes as something coveted, something she desires. He sees himself in her eyes as something she wants to become. He is feared and powerful, strong and invincible, any who dare cross him end up dead or are already dying. She wants to become him, to devour him, consume him whole.

And he is terrified.

Never has he encountered one who is so determined to become like him, to have the same desire to be immortal as him. Never has he seen a more ferocious desire to overpower him and show him that he is not alone, that he is not as powerful as he thinks he is. He sees her steadfast yearning to become stronger, to become invincible even if she has nothing more to protect.

But then again, his strength wasn't to protect either.

His strength, and most likely hers, was rooted on their passions, their desire to become something more than themselves. He wants to become immortal, to become master of the ninja arts. And she wants to become invincible, to become impervious to death.

He has yet to discover her reason for it, however. One cannot be immortal without a goal in mind, after all.

All he sees is her fervent desire to become like him, and that should not be. No one should aspire to be as great as him, for if they do, they might as well be dead.

"I will be the strongest shinobi there ever was, and there will be no one to second me."

He will become so powerful, he will be revered as a god.

"He is a god, and I am his temple."

She wants to be stronger, to be invincible and immortal just like him. Like the temple aspiring to be the body of the god, the house of the god, she aspires to be one like him. He is strong and he is powerful, and she desires nothing more than to become like him.

She wants to be him, wholly and entirely like him. She wants his power and his strength, his immortality and his invincibility. The way he carries himself without worry of death, she wants it. From the very edges of his face to the very bones of his spine, she wants it.

She desires to become him, and so she desires his body. The passions of the heart are never far from the passions of the flesh, and she is not impervious to the desires of the body. Lust, she knows, is powerful enough to control, powerful enough to seal. And she will control him, seal herself to him. His last phrase is proof of how she has already caught him. Soon, she will have him wholly and entirely hers, and then she will become immortal, and then she will become stronger.

She removes her robe and looks at herself in the small mirror, eyeing each fresh cut and bruise and wonders what it would feel like if his teeth and nail cut her instead of the blade, wonders how tight he would hold her to form bruises on her skin. She imagines how he would hold her, tight and fast against him, and how he might lap and bite and press and suck at her skin. She brings herself to orgasm as she thinks of the sharpness of his bones and the roughness of his skin, and how warm he would feel against her.

"Never beg." She imagines him whispering against her skin. "Never, ever beg."

But at that time, in the aftermath of their fight, she wants nothing but to beg and plead and cry for him.

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A/N: Merry Christmas? Merry Christmas. I hope I didn't ruin the holidays for you. Review?


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I really don't know where I want this fic to go. Honest. Any ideas?

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In the passing years, she has grown used to the dark, and has even noticed the minute differences in the temperature in order to tell the day from the night. It is colder at night, and even colder at dawn. She tells this to the several captives and prisoners before she attacks them with bare hands and sharp nails. Sometimes she is lucky, and in the arena she is equipped with her sword, either the whistling Kunishige or the sparking Yamenokayama, and her opponent is as well, whips, chains, claws, chakrams, boomerangs, and even small crossbows that can shoot fifteen bolts in a blink of an eye. She defeats them all, but not without sustaining deep cuts and large bruises.

And then there was a time where she was almost gotten by a boy much younger than her.

"Stop this." Her mentor's booming voice echoed through the arena, shaking the rusted prison bars and stopping the pale-haired boy from piercing the kunai to the back of her neck.

"Of course, master." The boy replies obediently, removing his person from her.

She steps back, feigning hearing her mentor's command, and unsheathes Yamenokayam, feeling the electric jolt of revenge stirring deep within her. She will not allow herself to be bested by a young boy, much less a boy from Konohagakure.

After all these years, her anger has not yet subsided. Briefly recalling the moment she decided to gut those chuunin in order to sate her anger, she wants to do the same to this boy, this boy from Konohagakure who has proven his strength over her.

She cannot have competition when she is so close to becoming his.

"Stop!"

Before Yamenokayama's blade grazed the tender skin of the boy, she is pushed back, kicked in the abdomen by her master. She tumbles and ends face-down on the bloody dirt of the arena.

"You have disobeyed me more than once." He says to her as she rises from the ground. He scowls at hearing no apology from her.

A grunt escapes her mouth and that is enough to tell him how she feels.

"I cannot have my two students killing off each other." He explains, but doesn't move towards her, instead staying by the boy's side. "There is much to do before we decide who is the better one among the both of you."

"Understood." The boy cheerily replies.

"Of course." She mutters, glancing at Yamenokayama's blade, imagining it to be painted with the boy's blood.

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/

* * *

When she reaches her quarters, she takes time to admire the collection she has began from the few years. Exotic and unfamiliar weapons hailing from different nations and pried from different hands, she can still smell the blood off of them, she thinks. Imagines the souls of those she has killed to he looming around the room, gloomy in their afterlife and thirsty for blood.

She takes a long look at her prized collection of swords. Compared to the rest of the weapons, she is sure that she is more effective with a blade than any of those intricate ones. And in the span of two years she has managed to gather twenty-six swords from twenty-three different traitors of Hagakure. They are not samurai, they do not have honor left in them.

If that was so, what did that make of her?

She is not yet brandished with her own sword, nor is she given the protective seal of the Hakage. She is not yet a samurai, and so she must venture in search of the Hakage again, if she would be granted audience.

She wonders what has happened to Hagakure. It has been quite long, in the years after the Third Shinobi World War, since she has last visited her hometown. Of course, she had ventured out of the labyrinth as a mercenary, an unofficial hunter for Hagakure, taking down rōnin that have strayed from the path of the samurai, but she has not yet seen what has become to the village.

And so she decides to visit.

* * *

/

* * *

But her mentor disapproves of the decision.

"But you had just left the other day." He says, "I cannot help but think you are enjoying much of your independence."

He was the one who suggested she work as a mercenary, find her own technique as there is only so much he can teach her, he says. But she knows he has not yet taught her everything, and doubts if he will teach her what she wants to know.

"During the Third Shinobi World War, I was kept here." She argues, "Why?"

"You were not yet ready." He replies. "I would rather not risk pulling the curtain before the stage is set."

His metaphor doesn't allude her. She, not yet ready for war? For bloodshed? She has done nothing in the labyrinth but kill and avoid being killed. Is he not satisfied with her?

"Are you not satisfied with me? Am I lacking?"

Of course he would noticed that she has grown older, more defiant, more arrogant, and he detests that.

"What would have me do, then? I could only learn so much from fighting against half-hearted prisoners of war."

She has grown bitter towards him, he thinks. And she used to admire him so much and crawl behind his every word.

"And then there's you."

She pauses. What could she say to him? He has finally given her his full attention, something that she has so craved from him, what shall she do with it?

"You promised me immortality." She says under her breath. "You promised that I would be invincible."

She looks at him in the half-light of his quarters, and sees his ageless features and pale skin against the pitch black of the room. The corners of his tight mouth dip slightly enough for her to feel his disapproval of her. She steels herself and forces a meek apology back into the depths of her belly. She is no longer the young girl who desires his attention, his approval, but she is older and knows more of what she should want.

And that is not him.

Not his body.

Not the feeling of his taut body against hers.

Not the sight of his jagged smirk.

Not the whisper of his breath against her breast.

Not him.

At least, that is what she tells herself.

* * *

/

* * *

But when he rises from his seated position and comes towards her, lazy and languid in his pace, it takes much of her will not to shake at the shred of possibility that he finally wants her. He is powerful, as powerful as she wants to be and she wonders how far her strength is from him. Multitudes? If she is finally made immortal, would she be as strong as him? To be able to radiate power and exhume fear in anyone? Even in the years that she has gathered her strength, she still feels belittled when he is near and watching so closely.

"I promised you nothing." He whispers, drawing near to curl his hand at the back of her neck.

And at the instance, she freezes at the feeling of his rough, warm skin against hers. Her breath catches in her throat and her hands feel numb and tender, unable to grasp at his clothes if she wanted to.

And oh, she wants to.

"I will make you immortal." He hisses and he is so close, much closer than he has been to her before. She feels his breath sweep over her face and her mouth quivers to swallow it.

"And that is not a promise." He continues, tightening his grip on her neck that she croaks at the sensation, imaging just how tight he would hold her against him. "It is my goal."

And before she can allow herself the pleasure of swallowing his words, he disappears from her sight and returns to his position on the bed.

"Do you understand?" He asks, clearly unfazed.

"Yes." She answers automatically.

"If you wish to assist me in my attaining of this goal, very well." He decides. "Go to Hagakure. Become a samurai."

She pauses. A moment ago he was adamantly disagreeing with her, but now- _does he? Is he?_

She stops herself from thinking anything else and answers, "Thank you." before taking her leave.

And when she passes the entry, she hears him call out, as a final reminder;

"But remember before you are anything else, you are mine."

* * *

/

* * *

In the confines of her room, she thinks to herself what would have happened if she crawled over him to test how much of her he owns.

"Everything." She imagines him saying, imagines him rolling his hips to meet hers in a tempestuous grind. She would have him under her, his fingers intertwined with hers, and his torso caught in-between her knees.

"Everything?" She would test him. "I doubt it."

And then, when she believes to have the strength to keep him under her, to have him writhe and mewl and scream because of her, he pulls her down to him, using his hands to trap her and keep her pinned on him. Even under such circumstances, he would have the upper hand.

"You are mine." He would grit against his teeth and she would have hers against the column of his neck, branding his skin with her mark. And then he would have one hand slip between the two of them, travelling between her breasts and down her stomach and just above where she wants him most, teasing her in the most cruel of ways.

But alas, before she can allow herself to take pleasure in her imaginings, a knock resounds on her door. And if that were him, well, she knows better than to think it was him. Too many times has she opened the door to another face for her to think otherwise.

It is a surprise, however, that when she opens the door, it is the pale-haired boy from before.

"I believe I haven't introduced myself properly to you, Shikai-san." The boy says.

How long had he been there? Did he hear her? How could she-

"Yakushi Kabuto." He smiles. "It's nice to meet you." He has a hand ready to deliver a friendly handshake.

"Shikai no Shikaku, but you know that already." She replies weakly. "Is there anything else?"

He shakes his head.

But just as she was about to close the door, he asks,

"How would you like to know if they felt the same way?"

 _This kid!_

"I mean," He goes to explain, "You fight as if you're trying to impress someone, but there's no one to impress. Are you going back to Hagakure to prove yourself? To show how much you've grown?"

She blinks, and sighs internally out of relief.

"Partially." She tells him. "I'm not a shinobi like you, kid. I don't need to prove myself to anyone."

"But there is." He presses. "You just don't know it yet." He finishes with a smile.

"Believe me." She counters. "I'd know."

"Master isn't easily impressed. If he was, I'm sure he'd block you, not kick you. But then again, you don't impress me either."

And the grinning Yakushi Kabuto takes his leave of the shocked, embarrassed, and raging Shikaku no Shikai.

* * *

/

* * *

A/N: Yes. I like not writing smut. But I don't like the feeling of "this chapter had so much potential of actual, uninhibited, much awaited(?) smut but it's not" It hurts. A little. But I like keep the tension up like oh my god when is the right time to have sex in this fic? Answer: Never. Maybe. Tell me in a review?


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